This is the story of my Mum’s life written and told by me and my brother at her funeral on 15/10/2025.

CHRIS We would like to welcome you all to this commemoration and celebration of the life of our mother Patricia Joan Atkin. In particular, Shirley and her family who are joining us from New Zealand, Colin and his family in Spain, Brian in Lincolnshire and Penny in Shetland.

It is lovely to see so many of you once again, just 4 months or so since we said goodbye to Dad. We always said they would not want to be parted for long and so it has proved.

In accordance with Mum’s wishes this is a non-religious ceremony, but there will be moments later for reflection, contemplation and prayer if you so wish.

PAUL Mum was born in January 1930, slightly closer to the start of WW2 than the end of WW1, to very young parents, Bill and Mabel Burford, who were both 20 at the time.

She spent her first four years in her maternal grandparent’s very crowded house in Bedford Road, with her parents, grandparents Charlie and Jinny, and their youngest children, Edie, Arthur and Syd; the last two of which were young enough to be playmates as well as uncles, and she was always very close to Edie.

Mum’s first memories were of being terrified by an army pipe and drum band that came skirling out of Grays Park while she was playing in the street, running home and banging on the door to find a place of safety from “that terrible noise”. Mum never liked sudden, loud noises (like me, or her Mum, doing the washing up).

CHRIS She did indeed instil in us a concern about being quiet and thinking of others; If we arrived home late from a trip out with Mum and Dad, she would always insist we didn’t slam the car door, talk loudly or make a noise as ‘there might be babies asleep’. As a pre-school child I remember crawling up the stairs as silent as a ninja on the rare occasions she allowed me to go upstairs for something when Dad was on night shift.

So it must have been an act of adolescent rebellion to some extent when I started to learn the drums in my teenage years. She was surprisingly tolerant of this, but her legacy had an impact as I couldn’t help checking the immediate environment surrounding any gig we might play and think ‘what if a baby is asleep…?’

PAUL An early memory she often mentioned, was of being taken out in her pram by one of the girls down the street and coming home with a dandelion shoved up her nose. Mum never liked bullies, so when she started school she went with a group of kids who were going to look after her. Crossing the road to meet them she was hit by a car which, luckily for her, and us, was going slowly enough just to leave her with bruises and a serious concern about road safety.

When she was 2, her grandmother died and, after a while, her grandfather remarried a woman she did not remember fondly – “old Maud” – and she did not get on with Maud’s daughter, with whom she had to share a room. So, her parents moved into 131 Hathaway Road, one of the new “Homes fit for Heroes” council houses that had been built less than ten years before.

Mum therefore had to change schools and went to Quarry Hill Primary where she came across a boy in the same class – memorable because his was always the first name to be called in the boy’s register, as hers was in the girl’s. She helped him find some lost drumsticks during a school Xmas performance and, as dad said “she’s been helping me ever since”.

As a child Mum played on the playing field (except on Sundays when the council chained up the equipment to preserve the Sabbath) and watched the Council dig trench shelters on it during the Munich crisis in 1938.

On her birthday the next year, she’d wanted a bike. What she got was her baby brother John. I know the family has always inclined to be neat and tidy, but sharing a birthday with a nine year gap might be thought taking this to extremes.

CHRIS Within 9 months of John being born, WW2 broke out and the family was moved to Dumbarton. Mum’s Dad Bill being a docker, was in a reserved occupation essential to war work and the docks just outside Glasgow were thought safer than those in Tilbury.

However, because the family were so homesick, when Bill received call-up cards by an administrative error, he didn’t challenge it and was drafted into the Royal Engineers so called “Dock lot”.

The rest of the family came back to Grays where Nan worked with the Rationalisation Committee at the Coop and Mum spent a lot of nights in an Anderson Shelter with a wireless, lamp and a map she put pins in to follow movements on various fronts. This followed another very brief evacuation to Wales with a friend that lasted several weeks, during which Mum climbed trees by the railway line and made plans to stowaway on a train to London to get back home. Holding on to home was very important to her, and she never moved out of Thurrock her entire life.

The family didn’t get through the war unscathed. Syd, Mum’s youngest uncle and the closest to her, was killed in Tunisia, when his lorry drove over a landmine just days after the Afrika Korps had surrendered. The date of that was burned into Mum’s memory; and his older brother Arthur, who Mum said used to sit by the fireside cracking jokes, died in 1952 of a virus he picked up in Burma with the 14th Army. Syd’s name is on the War Memorial in Grays. Arthur’s isn’t.

PAUL The wartime experience of rationing and “make do and mend” made Mum see food as sacred – there was nothing worse than wasting it – and very careful with resources, keeping things “that might come in handy”. That included an enormous green bottle of calomine lotion that lived under the sink for decades because there was just too much of it to throw out with a good conscience. It took us a long time to persuade her to let it go. Reduce, Reuse Recycle being reflexes for Mum that long predated the environment movement.

On Matriculating from Palmers Girls, Mum got a job as a Secretary with Scottish Widows in the City and enjoyed commuting up there with a friend who worked nearby. She also did evening classes at Grays Tech, where Dad spotted her, ran down the road and asked her out to the pictures. Mum said, “he seemed nice and chatty, so I said yes”. And that was that for the next 80 years.

After Mum and Dad got married in 1952, looking like a pair of film stars (I always thought Mum looked like a prettier version of the Queen and Dad was like Gregory Peck with a stronger jaw) they lived with Dad’s parents in the top two rooms of their house on Ireton Place. That worked out very well and I was born in 1954.

After a short move to a flat in Tilbury we moved back to Hathaway Road – which seems to have a pull like a benevolent black hole – and stayed there ever after. After two years of doing it up in the long lost modernising spirit of Barry Bucknell – remember him? -and John coming to stay with us when his parents moved to Kent; Chris was born there in 1959. During her pregnancy, Mum was offered Thalidomide, but didn’t accept it because she thought she’d manage better without it. A good call. Though, if President Trump is watching, she almost certainly took paracetamol, and made very sure we were vaccinated.

CHRIS Looking back, it feels now like we grew up in a kind of Ladybird book; Mum and Dad took on unchallenged 1950s gender roles, largely because they hadn’t been challenged; with Dad going to work and Mum staying at home to look after us, part cook, part cleaner, part nursery-nurse, teacher, part accountant and manager of home economics.

One of Mum’s roles was passenger in charge of navigation when we took any trips in the car to holiday destinations or other places. A huge OS map across her knees and instructions such as ‘keep on going on this blue road, then we need to turn right onto a red road..’

My very earliest memories are of just me and mum- pre-school years; waving Paul off to school in the deep snow of ‘big freeze’ winter of 1962-1963, always being given a choice of what to play with so she was free to be industrious in the kitchen, being taught to recognise and spell my name, doing a jigsaw of the Beatles together and inadvertently locking ourselves in the cupboard under the stairs. Mum had to call for our neighbour- Mr Barton- through the small window to come to rescue us. She told me some years ago that the incident had terrified her, but she gave absolutely no indication of that at the time. Mind you, she once said that I didn’t actually speak until I was 4 years old and I’m pretty sure that’s untrue.

PAUL Mum being very organised, there was a definite routine to all this. Elevenses, a coffee and a biscuit, was always at 11. Not exactly on the dot, but near enough. We always had a break to “Listen with Mother” at a quarter to 2 on the Home Service because, at the time, this wasn’t just the title of a programme, but an instruction passed down apostolically from Lord Reith. Big jobs had definite days, a bit like the Scaffold song. “Monday’s washing Day, Tuesday’s Soooop”. Washing originally done boiling sheets in a big pan with tongs, a washboard and a mangle.

Mum was a great cook and baker, and made mince pies that would definitely be in line for a Hollywood handshake on Bake Off (an ounce of extra fat in the pastry is the trick – and Jamie always uses that when he bakes, so the tradition lives). At one point in the sixties she went on a World Cookery course, which seemed to focus mostly on chicken, and tried out Coc Au Vin and an extraordinary Mexican dish that involved chicken, chocolate and chilies – they were wonderful; but we never had them again…

CHRIS Mum’s Chocolate Cake was my favourite and I always requested it for birthdays or special occasions. The other thing I loved that mum made was Fish Pie. She complained that it was fiddly and bit complicated to make and when I left home she gave me the recipe. For over 40 years I have made many lovely Fish Pies, but never have I managed to make one like she did, or as taste good as she did. I have never even attempted to make a Chocolate Cake…

PAUL When we all caught chicken pox in 1959 and couldn’t go on holiday. Mum and Dad bought a telly instead. Mum and Dad always watched “the news”; to which Mum’s reactions were often quite fierce. Probably the first time this made a strong impression on me was Mum exploding at a report of the Sharpeville massacre in 1959, when South African police wearing coal scuttle helmets shot down anti apartheid protestors. “JUST LOOK AT THEM! They even LOOK like Nazis!”

Mum had definite views. Always voted Labour, liked Michael Foot and Tony Benn, voted Remain, thought Nigel Farage was a dangerous charlatan; and, during a recent dementia assessment, when asked “who is the President of the United States?” replied, “I don’t know, but I do know that I don’t like him!”

CHRIS She went back to work in the early 1970s when I started secondary school – first with the DHSS, then the local Education Department before settling in to being a librarian – which is very appropriate because, for Mum, if anything was more sacred than food, it was BOOKS. And if there was something more sacred than books, it was LIBRARY books. Because they belong to everyone, and other people would be reading them, they deserved special care. The same personal responsibility for social goods that meant you didn’t drop litter or put your feet up on bus or train seats that other people would have to sit on. And you washed out your milk bottles and recycled tins.

She read constantly and widely. Biographies, novels, crime, Armando Iannucci and Alan Bennett. And she had similarly wide musical taste, from Jack Jones and Charles Aznavour to Glenn Miller, Mozart and many more from what Tom Lehrer called “that crowd“; who she found thrilling.

Retirement in the 1990s coincided with the arrival of grandchildren – which was good timing – first Joe, then Sasha and Jamie; and she was an engaged and loving grandmother who all of the kids felt safe with and nurtured by; while she also helped look after her Mum in her last decade. Retirement also meant walking, Tae Chi, visiting family and friends.

PAUL Ill health in the last ten years or so, came in the form of falling over several times – “I go to walk and my legs don’t move” as she put it, then arthritis in her hip, which made walking even with a stick or frame quite painful; so she didn’t move about much. As she said “its alright when I’m sitting down”. So we watched a lot of Heartbeat and Midsomer murders and Vera.

In the end, Mum went suddenly, pretty much how she’d have wanted it. Quick and relatively easy on her and everyone else. On the Friday, Chris and I took her for a spin around the field in the wheelchair, and she reminisced about playing on it 90 years before. On the Saturday, woken in the morning by a headache that turned out to be a cerebral haemorrhage, she was beyond all pain and sensation by the time we got her to Basildon, quickly though that was, and just drifted away by the evening with us around her during the day.

I think the word that comes to mind most thinking about Mum is “animated”. In just about everything she did, or was involved in, she took enormous delight in what seems to be the smallest of things. “Cup of tea Mum?” “Ooh! LOVELY!” Its heartbreaking not to be able to wake her up in the morning with that question, a kiss and a weather report.

CHRIS I want to leave you with a fanciful thought. We were and are not a spiritual family, but a incident happened that although certainly just serendipity gives me some comfort.

On Mum’s last day in hospital it was obvious that she was no longer with us- just her body in existence and beginning to be at peace when I took Juhi and Sasha back to Hathaway Road. After a short stay I went to get in my car and noticed a plane flying in parallel to Hathaway Road and opposite Ireton Place.

Dad was always fascinated by planes and flight. It was some sort of fighter type and I thought- ‘oh, there goes Dad’. A minute earlier or later and I’d have missed it. Then I thought, ‘of course, he’s gone to pick Mum up’ and I have a very clear image of Dad in the front concentrating on piloting the plane and Mum in the seat behind with her bag and cardigan on and an OS map across her knees saying ‘we follow this red road, then turn left by the river and follow it to the sea’. I’m not sure where they are going, but they are going together.